Another crappy WOT fic...

[Plank]

((This is a bad fic I wrote back in the day and never finished, I'll put it up bit by bit due to the post restrictions, but please, tell me what you think, if the response is good, I'll finish it up. Thanks.))

Prolouge: A fine horse

Ingtar was awakened from his short nap by the tolling of a bell that let him know dawn was approaching. He quickly stood, chilled by the wintery air of early morning that his breeches did nothing to ward off. In the back of his mind he compared it to a Shienarian spring, and, with a newfound sense of warmth by thinking of home, he gathered his clothing; a simple tunic and trousers of the colors yellow and black. The colors of Lord Barov, his owner.
Ingtar thought back to Falme, recalled his turning from the young al'Thor boy, darting around a corner. He remembered his sense of courage as he faced twenty Seanchan soldiers. As he fought, he played the scene in his mind where he told al'Thor of his secret. That he was a Darkfriend. As he fought those soldiers, he prayed to the Creator for His forgiveness, to help him through this fight so that he might undo the wrong he had helped create over the years. He fought bravely, killing all but four of the insect-carapaced Seanchan, but took a sharp blow from a spear to his side just below his ribcage. He was overpowered by the men, whose skin was as dark as the night itself. he saw, and was asked if he would swear fealty to the Empress, may the Light illumine her, and take the duty of becoming property of their leige. Lord Barov.
Though his mind had been blurred by the sharp pain, and his eyes were transfixed on the crimson river that flowed from his side, he had accepted, knowing that one day he would be able to escape. Undo the wrong. Walk in the Light.
He was taken to a Seanchan ship, a box-like mammoth with square sails called the Champion's Fist, where he lost consciousness on its cold, bare wooden deck.
He was then awakened by a sense of... cold. Colder than ice, running through his body, chilling his blood and settling in the marrow of his bones. As if he had been dismounted from his steed and thrown into the waist deep snow naked by an extremely creative Trolloc horde. He opened his eyes, and saw that his head was being held by a pale, pathetic looking woman with a leash around her neck that led back to a tan woman in a dress with two lightning bolts on its breast. He knew the woman Healing him to be a /Da'mane/, and the holder of the leash to be her /Sul'dam/. These Seanchan were odd folk. The Healing took the last of his feeble strength, and he promptly lapsed back into a deep sleep.
Within a few days, Ingtar was fully recovered, with only the slightest hint of a scar below his bottom-most rib to prove that he had indeed been wounded. He was told by other Servants he met that he would have to rid himself of his Shienaran topknot and grow his hair out, because a shaven head mocked the Crystal Throne and the Empress herself, may the Light illumine her.
He walked over to a white porcelain wash basin filled with warm water, and washed and shaved himself. He still could not understand how the other servants managed to sneak into his room without waking him. His age was catching up with his adept warrior senses. He ran a hand through his short, raven-dark hair, and gazed at the wings of silver and grey that lay over his ears and temples. 'You're getting to be an old man, Ingtar,) thought the Head of House Shinowa, 'and your fool plans will get you killed.'
He walked from his chambers down the brightly painted hallway in the home of a once wealthy Altaran merchant here in Amadicia, a hallway to which he had become quite accustomed. The house had been taken as property of the Empire and given to High Lord Barov as a gift for his loyalty. He saw at the end of the hall a guard he had come to know as Madro, an average heighted man with long, curly black locks, and a strong, pointed nose. Madro confidently held a wickedly curved spear that reminded Ingtar of a Trolloc's vicious plaything. 'He will be trouble when the time comes,' thought Ingtar.
"Good Morning, Guardsman Madro," he said, which netted him only the slightest nod in acknowledgement.
Ingtar made his way through the house to the large kitchen on the ground floor. The room was alive and enthusiastic with people, smells, and activity as the day began anew. He talked to one of the cooks, a plump, darkhaired woman with an Altaran Marriage Dagger around her neck, who went by the name Malla, and procured a few pieces of burnt sausage, and the heel of a loaf of bread. Ingtar carried a stool to the corner of the room to eat his breakfast before he began his day's work of relaying messages and doing chores for the High Lord Barov.
After finishing his quick breakfast, he headed out of the kitchen to the stables through a set of large doors. Ingtar eyed the steeds with appreciation; he liked to think he had an eagles eye for horseflesh.
Ingtar spoke to the young stableboy who was grooming a small mare, "Good moring, Fol. Any new ones today?"
Fol turned to look at Ingtar, smiling when he saw him; Ingtar meant copper pieces. "Yes, Sir, we do. Got in that nice one there last night," he pointed at a tall, lean, white steed mottled with tan flecks. "Some merchant went against his vows, so they stuck his head on a stick, and took this fellow away. Since it was Barov's men who found him, he kept the horse."
Ingtar gave the horse a nod of praise, and himself one too, since he just tied up another loose end in his plan. "A fine horse, that is." He slipped a piece of silver into Fol's hand, and strode off into the kitchen.
He made his way through the early bustle up to High Lord Barov's rooms. Silently, he entered. 'I could kill the man in his sleep,' he thought, 'Ride out of here using my so-called vows as protection...' He walked over and spoke to the large, sleeping form of High Lord Burov, prostrating himself as he went. "Good morning, High Lord Barov, dawn has come."

[Plank]

With a grumble, Barov shook himself awake, raking the hair on his half shaven head with his hand. "Good morning, Ingtar, on time as usual. A good /da'covale/." He reached down to pat the head of the prostrated Ingtar, and moved to his closet. "Dress me, Ingtar."
Ingtar rose and made his way over to the armoire, opening it to see only black and yellow among the pegs and hangers. He withdrew a simple yellow tunic and black trousers with black boots, as well as a black waistcoat with golden trimming. He proceeded to help the High Lord dress himself, keeping his smile on as best possible.
The day came and went, Ingtar did chores as normal, handled the usual arrangements, and so on. Evening came quickly after another day of service, and Ingtar used his free time to go outside behind the stable to keep himself in shape by handling a large wooden post he used as a quarterstaff. It swung with a furious /whoosh/ as he imagined himself in the thick of a Trolloc raid. His hands flew about the staff with speed and agility; young Fol, the stableboy, watched him.
Fol often questioned Ingtar about his past, imagining him to be a prince from the north in somewhere like Cairhien or Andor, but Ingtar only told him that he was a simple man from the north, where the winter would freeze the spittle in your mouth, but the crops grew as high as your head for miles on end.
Ingtar decided that tonight was the night.
He walked to his bedroom gathering things in a small bundle, wrapped in his cloak. In the cloak was a collection of rocks. Once, Madro had asked him about the rocks, in which Ingtar explained his undying facination with them, the patterns and swirls, textures and feel and things of that nature. Madro payed him no mind.
Now, they weighted down the bundle which Ingtar had slung over his shoulder. He walked down the hallway to Madra's post who looked at him questioningly.
"Where are you going at this time of night, Ingtar? Why aren't you in your chambers?"
Ingtar resisted a rouge grin and said, "Oh, I just wanted to show you this.."
Ingtar move the bundle from his shoulder, and held it. As Madro's gaze followed it, Ingtar swung upward hard and fast, knocking the man backwards.
Ingtar managed to catch his spear as he fell in his armor clatterng to the ground. As Ingtar swung the spear down at the guard's throat, Madro let out a cry that was soon replaced by the sound of gurgling. Deep crimson erupted from his throat and mouth, and his eyes soon glazed over. Ingtar set the spear by the mans side, and asked the great Mother to watch after her own.
He continued down the hallway untill he reached the stairwell that lead him down to the kitchen. Stepping lightly over the ever groaning steps, he made his way through the kitchen into the stableyard where another guard lay on a pile of hay in a deep sleep.
Ingtar crept over to the white and tan gelding he had gandered at that morning, slowly saddling, bridling, and becoming friendly with the animal.
After a few minutes, he decided the beast trusted him enough, where upon he slowly mounted, and rode silently out of the stable into the deserted streets of Amador.
He rode past several Seanchan street patrols, but they paid him no mind since he was dressed in the colours of the High Lord Barov. A group of Taraboner soldiers, however, did stop him and ask him to recite his vows, which he did without hesitation, and with a touch of false pride in his voice.
He found himself nearing the gates, whereupon he withdrew a small parchment from his tunic. On it was an order to deliver a message to a Seanchan border patrol, signed by the High Lord Barov. Of course the document was false. Ingtar had been studying Barov's hand writing untill he had learned it perfectly. He showed the parchment to a Taraboner soldier, who held a lantern up to read the paper through his steel veil.
He was waved on, and he rode out into the open. He was free at last. He would go and gather men, with plans of glory for The Creator in his mind. He saw the Fortress of Light in the distance, and found a certain irony in his situation by gandering at the luminescent home of the Children of the Light.
He smiled and thought,'Peace favor your sword, Ingtar.'

[Plank]

Chapter One: A Rotten Fruit


The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose above the peaks of Dragonmount. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was *a* beginning.
North and east the wind blew, past the churning markets and the monolithic White Tower of Tar Valon, over the river Erinin. It continued through snow-covered Shienar, rippling the banners over the Ogier-built keeps of Fal Moran and on to Fal Dara. On it went, into the lesser Blight, past the Seven Towers of the once majestic Malkier, and finally over the Mountains of Dhoom.
The breeze rustled through the blemished and decaying leaves of what once was the Great Tree of Stedding Jegoku, knocking off a bruised and blackened fruit, which fell to ground, bursting open to show its maggot-filled innards.
Fraydeth, son of Dakval, son of Taso, bent his hunched figure down, bearing his weight on his twisted cane, to retrieve the severed fruit. He placed it in his mouth and chewed carefully on the insect-covered crop, looking down his broad nose at the topknotted, armor-clad, blathering Shienaran before him.
"He... he survived the battle at Falme, and was taken as a servant to the S-S-Seanchan. He swore fealty to one of their lords, but soon escaped to take refuge in Saldea, where his reputation was still untarnished at the t-t-time..."
"Need the story of his life, I do not."
"E-e-excuse me, S-sir?"
"Continue," replied the massive, gnarled Fraydeth.
"W-well, he banded together some...people like myself, you see..."
"You speak of whom?"
"Darkfriends, Sir."
"Problem this is, how?" Fraydeth's heavy eyebrows knotted together as he glared at the snivelling figure.
"You see, My Lord, he heads this way. Up in arms."
This was certainly a surprise. "In arms, he is?"
"Yes. He has a legion of three hundred armsmen, claiming to be retainers of House Shinowa, but actually followers of the G-Great Lord."
Fraydeth considered this information in silence for a moment. The Shienaran wrung his hands together as the one to whom he spoke glared, more and more intently. "Where?" Fraydeth finally replied.
"The Black Hills, now, but they're making good time, gathering more men like myself as he goes."
"What are his intentions?"
"Thats the problem, my lord." Sweat trickled down the human's face, dripping from his chin. "We're not sure if he comes as friend or foe."
"Servant once, servant forever he is."
Emboldened by the reaction, the Shienaran asked, "Yes, yes. Now, um, about the gold you promised..."
Fraydeth squinted his large brown eyes at the soldier, and a flurry of black specks passed over them. The man before him became a single flame, screamed in pain, and his charred and armored skeleton fell to the ground.
The soldier's demise evoked a chuckle from the muscle-roped frame of the large Ohnne called Adamor, son of Fosu, son of Josta, and the slim Evedith, daughter of Lwelen, daughter of Hamola.
"What do you think his plans are, Fraydeth?" came the booming voice of Adamor.
"Know I do not. Yet. Soon to see, we shall."
Fraydeth smiled as the whirling /saa/ diminished from his eyes and the feeling of the True Power left him.
The Ohnne of Stedding Jegoku were not the Ogier of legend, building beautiful cities, attending to their groves and singing to the trees, but of a different breed -- a darker breed. The fallen Stedding lay closely to Shayol Ghul, letting the Dark One bend reality just enough to give the Ogier an amazing trait: the ability to channel the True Power.
Tainted by the ever-descending Blight, the former Ogier who resided in the Stedding thought they could brave the corruption that consumed the land, and eventually their very souls. They submitted to the will of the Dark One, adopting the name 'Ohnne', from the Old Tongue, meaning 'diseased'.
Though they number fewer than sixty, their abilities makes them possibly one of the strongest forces in the Blight next to the Chosen, and the Great Lord himself, as the servants of the Dark One refered to their master. But they were unknown to all but the Great Lord himself, and the Ohnne wished to keep this veil about themselves. They worked quietly, slaying Darkfriend bordermen who were unlucky enough to be given the assignment of updating the Ohnne on recent events: progression of the Dragon Reborn, the Seanchan Army, the movements of the cursed Aiel. The Chosen, called Forsaken by others, were not aware of the Ohnne, and the twisted giants did everything to ensure they never would be.
Their current concern was a man named Lord Ingtar of House Shinowa, a formerly highly-ranked man of the Shienarian army. After taking on a quest of which the details remained obfuscated, he found himself in Falme, where he was thought to have been killed when the heroes of legend arose to the calling of the Horn of Valere to battle the forces of both the Children of the Light and the invading Seanchan Army. He appeared to have survived, and had been taken to by many a Darkfriend. As far as they could tell, he was coming to visit.
Ingtar was an important man in the Shadow Councils; after impressing the Ohnne by killing two of their own, the Shienaran Darkfriend had been their main source of information and commands until his disappearance a few years earlier.
"He certainly poses no threat with only three hundred men if he wishes to attack us," sounded the thunder that was Adamor.
That roar was answered by the melody of Evedith's voice. "You underestimate our dear Shienarian, Adamor."
"Oh, come on. Three hundred men against the Ohnne? We could crumble Tar Valon to the ground if we wanted!"
"Fight them all yourself, you may," Fraydeth interupted with a tone of annoyance.
Adamor flexed his bulging muscles breifly, an act which all of the Ohnne had witnessed by now. "I very well might do that, Fraydeth. I don't see you making any plans."
Evedith chuckled in delight. "Yes, Adamor, take a stroll on down to the Black Hills. I'm sure you'll meet him somewhere near the border of Arafel. When he invites you over for tea and ca-"
Fraydeth pivoted on his twisted cane, the /saa/ a flurry past his eyes, "Plans you think I do not have? Plans I have! Always! All of you would be dead if not for Fraydeth!"
Adamor, a bit startled, replied, "Fraydeth, calm down, I didn't mean-"
"Quiet!" boomed the twisted Ohnne. "Demean me you shall not!" /Saa/ swarmed, and with that, Adamor dropped to his knees, clutching at his left flank in pain. "Leadership I was given by the Great Lord! Question it not!"
Evedith remained silent. She had known Fraydeth was at his wits' end worrying over this; Adamor wasn't smart enough to stay quiet. Poor fool.
"Fraydeth, I'm--" A gasp of pain, as blood began to emerge underneath his green tunic. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to anger you!"
A wave of icy calm washed over Fraydeth as he examined the muscle-bound, yet defenseless, Ohnne before him. "Anger me, you have not. Speak not before thinking."
Another cry of pain rang through the air. Fraydeth smiled, a monstrously pleased grin, and turned away, leaving Adamor collapsed in a heap beside the enormous former Great Tree. Fraydeth walked around him, and the tree, and began making his way out of the Stedding. He had a journey to make -- a trip to Shayol Ghul.

[Plank]

Thats all I got for now, I did another two chapters, but I don't like them really, so, yeah, Just let me know, please.

[Plank]

Oh, and on a side note, I just remembered that these fics were originally meant for fanfiction.net where Italics aren't allowed, so whenever you see a word that looks like /this/, it is to be italicised, that slipped my mind, and I'm too lazy to edit.

[Plank]

((Damnit, I forgot a chapter. God, This thread looks so horrible. Here you go.))

Chater Two: A shake of hands

Fraydeth couldn't help but chuckle at the gnarled old form of the man infront of him. It was, after all, the old man's turn.
"I was out hoeing my crops when I look past my patch of tabac and see this Myrddraal appears out of no where, they're good at that, and we start to size one another up. So this Halfman, looking down at me as if I should be scared- By the Creator I've seen more fearsome foes in my chamber pot,- he says to me 'Your crops will fail, Old man. You'll be consumed by the blight one and-,' well that was about as far as he got. I hacked off his eyeless head with my garden hoe before he could raise his toothpick of a sword against me. Their blood ruins my wheat, you know," said the old man, shaking his head in disgust as he moved a few pieces around, capturing two of Fraydeth's.
"Losing your mind a little more with every visit, Joktan," Fraydeth said as he moved his pieces about with the strategy of a battlefield commander. "It draws near, Old man. Quickly the time comes."
"Yes, yes it does...The world is changing rapidly," spoke Joktan as he fixed the leather band that held his stark white hair back.
"To our benefit, it is." Replied the Ohnne.
"The Dragon Reborn has killed near all of your Forsaken."
"Weaklings. Fodder for the cause, they are." He said, a touch of disdain in his voice.
"You and your breed don't appear to be doing much at all for your so-called 'cause'."
"Underestimate us you shouldn't, Joktan. We were to be the new Trollocs, thought The Great Lord. Wrong, he was."
"You don't appear to be gaining ground by playing stones with a fool old man."
"Helping your Creator you are not, as well. Besides, Joktan, amusement is your purpose."
"Bring the children, we'll dance a reel. I think I can still juggle and play a fife."
"Your turn, Old Man."
Joktan chuckled to himself and moved some pieces around, catching up quickly to Fraydeth's lead.
"You're getting better, boy."
Fraydeth boomed a laugh, having living long enough to see this man's great grandfather wrapped in swadling clothes. "Growing worse with age, you are, Joktan."
"I'm as youthful as ever, Grovekeeper. If I can fend off hordes of Trollocs led by feeble Halfmen, I can wrestle a game of stones from your grasp."
"Look around, Joktan. Decay is beautiful, yes. Vibrant. It will be like this, all of it. See it, you shall. Just wait."
"My crops still yield. My wheat is still golden. I've beaten the entire Blight. An old farmer who didn't want to give up his land. The Creator has been good to me."
"Intresting you are, Joktan. The only reason you are still alive, it is," said the smiling Ohnne.
"I pride myself on originality." Joktan replied, grinning.
"Join us you would, if you were smart, Joktan."
Without looking up from the stones board, Joktan replied, "The only time we could be as one would be when my blade runs into your stomach."
The Ohnne laughs delightedly at the old man's cunning. Coming into his domain, and telling him of his own death. This amused Fradeth. His mind turning to more important matters, he spoke, "Heard of the Shienaran, Joktan?"
"Ingtar? Yes, yes, I knew his grandfather. Marched with him many a day. What do you think his plans are?"
"Coming home to us, he is. Not fighting your war, fighting ours. When will you rid yourself of that /hadori/, Joktan? Your country fell to us long ago, it did. Memory is no more."
"Don't fool yourself, Grovekeeper. He comes with his head in the right place. The Creator has blessed that boy. You'll be as much a memory as that milking cow I had years back."
"Hungry we were. We needed that beast more than you."
"Is that the reason you left her head on my steps, Keeper?"
"A bit of fun, that was."
"Oh to the peaks of Shayol Ghul with you."
"Beautiful veiw, it is," And with that, Fraydeth moved another piece, capturing all of Joktan's.
"I suppose I'll take my leave. The time for us has come to stop these games, and move on to a more important one. Time for me to pack."
"Going to him, old man?" replied the curious Fraydeth.
"That I will. My purpose has finally shown itself. I'm off to find that boy."
"Very well, Joktan. We'll meet again soon enough, but on different terms. Good, its been."
Fraydeth extended his hand across the tree stump with the stones board on it, and Joktan recieved it; shaking it firmly.
Joktan stood, collected his board and pieces, and began to walk away, graceful for a man his age.
"Oh, Keeper?" Spoke Joktan, stopping and barely turning his head.
"Joktan?" replied Fraydeth.
The old man solemnly replied, "That game of stones will be your last victory."

[Arawis]

hmm...yes. interesting, interesting

[Mithrandir]

interesting it is and pretty cool i wanna read more... more i say you more

:rolleyes: